I hope you will consider
this letter, this thousandth
I’ve written
but the first sent to you,
as an old friend, as a joy,
as an outpouring of my affection.
I trust in a warm reception;
this has lain in my desk
for years, but it speaks
for itself and needs no comment;
What I’ve wanted to say
is that light is light;
the snowdrifts in the corner
of my building are poetry,
frozen and windblown,
and I see in them hope for spring;
I find myself longing
to meet you on a hillside
somewhere, green and fertile,
and we would embrace
as companions who never
lost the love of youth.
Rather, I’ve wanted to
write this openly
because with you
one must be open.
I am up and dressed,
live here lonesome
sometimes but in spirits
both hearty and good.
Write to me.
Faithfully yours.
Apr 3, 2020
Apr 3, 2020 at 1:20 PM UTC
I hope you will consider
this letter, this thousandth
I’ve written
but the first sent to you,
as an old friend, as a joy,
as an outpouring of my affection.
I trust in a warm reception;
this has lain in my desk
for years, but it speaks
for itself and needs no comment;
What I’ve wanted to say
is that light is light;
the snowdrifts in the corner
of my building are poetry,
frozen and windblown,
and I see in them hope for spring;
I find myself longing
to meet you on a hillside
somewhere, green and fertile,
and we would embrace
as companions who never
lost the love of youth.
Rather, I’ve wanted to
write this openly
because with you
one must be open.
I am up and dressed,
live here lonesome
sometimes but in spirits
both hearty and good.
Write to me.
Faithfully yours.